


Still Alive

by elfin (crazylittleelf)



Category: Fringe, The Walking Dead
Genre: F/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-01-25
Updated: 2011-01-25
Packaged: 2017-10-15 01:51:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/155771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crazylittleelf/pseuds/elfin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Take comfort where you can find it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Still Alive

Dead leaves blew along the cracked patio outside the only window in the farmhouse that wasn't permanently boarded up. Olivia watched the leaves swirl and dance under the dark clouds. The wind rattled what was left of the windows, the boards secured over them, caught in the eaves and howled. She shivered at the sound and swept her eyes one last time across the fields that surrounded the house, watching for any movement that stood out from the wind-whipped grass. She felt better when the heavy boards were back in place, but only just.

Rick glanced up from the gun he was cleaning. "See anything?"

She shook her head and sank on to the mattress they'd pulled in front of the fireplace. It wasn't cold yet, but it was getting there.

"No." Her voice was raspy. She cleared her throat and tried to remember the last time she'd spoken. Days, maybe. Rick didn't push anymore. "Just the storm coming in."

He set the gun aside and wiped his hands on an old shirt he was using as a rag and joined her on the mattress, sitting beside her, watching the far wall. She was weary and restless, the strange lethargic edginess she felt when they were trapped inside for too long with nothing to do. The threat of the storm and the covering noise of the wind had pinned them down all day, kept them from hunting, from gathering firewood, from anything more than quick trips to the latrine they'd dug in the field beside the house. Rick had cleaned the shotgun at least a dozen times, and she'd paced the house restlessly, checking each window, each door, the boarded-up hole in the attic where then birds had gotten in last month. She paced until she was tired, exhausted, still wide awake and she wanted to run outside and scream.

Rick's fingers touched the back of her clenched fist, stroked over her fingers until she relaxed and opened her hand. He turned her hand over and frowned at the little red crescents she'd dug into her palm, just short of drawing blood. He traced his finger over the marks, then lifted her hand to his mouth, kissing her palm. His breath felt furnace-hot on her skin and the restlessness pooled low in her belly and blossomed into slow-burning fire. The stubble along his jaw pricked against her palm when she slid her hand towards the back of his head to fist in his hair.

His mouth was just as hot as the preview promised, searing her lips and tongue, warming her. She pulled roughly on his hair, long enough now to really get her fingers in and get a good grip, pulled him down and he was pushing, too, pushing her into the mattress. He licked into her mouth and the weight of his body felt suffocating, trapping her like the storm, like the dead, like everything else and she rolled them on their sides, hooked one arm around his neck to keep him close. He tugged her against him, fingers in the belt loop at the back of her jeans.

He softened his kiss, soft lips against hers, slick tongue moving leisurely now, taking his time to explore her mouth like he hadn't mapped every millimeter in the time they'd been together. The time they'd been alone.

She whimpered and tried to move closer against him, awkward with her arm pinned under his head. Her free hand was clenched in his shirt and she abandoned her grip there to slip between them, tugging at fabric until she had skin under her questing fingers. They were both whip-thin, pared down to an economy of lean muscle and sharp bones. Rick squirmed when her fingers hit a ticklish spot on his side and he grinned into her mouth. She flattened her tongue against the front of his teeth, licking his smile.

His hand slid into her jeans, cupping her ass. She worked her own fly open, wiggling to try to get her pants down and Rick wasn't exactly helping, just rubbing whatever bare skin he could find. He brushed the back of his hand over thick curls, teasing, turned his hand as she bucked her hips forward. He spread his fingers wide and she flung one leg over his hips and she was open and wet. Olivia considered digging around for one of the few remaining condoms, but she didn't want to move or slow down or think about anything other than his strong, skinny fingers sliding into her.

He moved his fingers in long strokes that were almost too much, too deep but she ground herself against his hand just the same, seeking more. He was rough and fast, and her breath caught in her throat, gasping, quiet hitches in the cadence of it, soundless like they'd learned to be to survive this long. His thumb pressed over her clit, rubbing in time with the strokes of his fingers, hard, fast circles that made her eyes clench shut with the intensity of it, made her shake, made her twist her fingers into the worn fabric of his shirt when she came.

Olivia panted into his neck, resting her head against his arm, breathing in the musky scent of both of them, all sweat and sex and the way people smelled when they hadn't had a shower in a long, long time but weren't exactly dirty either. She licked his salt-sweet skin and moaned, just barely, when his fingers slowed but didn't stop. They curled in her now, rubbing against the upper wall, pressing slow and firm and just right and just _there_. She kissed his neck hard, sucking, leaving a mark that no one else would ever see and shuddered when his thumb teased her swollen clit with feather-light touches.

She forced her fingers open, untangled them from the fabric of his shirt and pulled at the buttons of his jeans. They gave with a soft, clothy pop that was barely audible over the sound of their breathing, and Rick hissed when she pushed her hand into jeans that were damp with sweat, damp from his dick leaking all over the fucking place. She spread the slick around, jerked him off slow and steady, each stroke matching the movement of his fingers inside her. He was hot and heavy in her hand, jerking and twitching when she rubbed her thumb against the head of his cock, right over his slit. His breath fanned over her face when he ducked his head to find her lips again, and his pulse throbbed in her hand, and hers throbbed against his fingers, around his fingers. He pulled his face back when he came, biting his lip because they never bit each other, and he spilled over her hand and onto her wrist, searing hot, shuddering. His fingers clenched in her and she clenched around him and all she could feel was the wild pounding of his heart and her heart and the rush of being alive.


End file.
